


Culture Clash

by ghostmittens



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Other, in which Junkrat's inner workings aren't as scattered as one might suspect, mercy's just a mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:03:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7639492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmittens/pseuds/ghostmittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Much learning does not teach understanding."  Heraclitus (544-483 B.C.)</p><p>Everyone knows that actions beget consequences. But how rarely they ask what begot the action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Antecedent

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody does something for "no reason".

It wasn’t as if he was _stupid_. That was as the first mistake anyone could make: that amid the disorganization, laughter, and soot, that he wasn’t sharp as a tack or that he wasn’t paying attention. Looking around as people spoke saved time, helped him pick his escape routes and trap sites. He noticed many things as he heard every word. Always had to be ready, had to be observant.

For example, he was well-aware that the rest of his newfound comrades were not pleased to work with him, or his professional associate, and especially not when they were together. Sure, there were some friendly smiles in the company, but friend groups always came first, smiles tightened and thinned when the Junkers came about, and more often than not, they were spoken to in patient, measured tones, given with excuses of _“now, I know you’re not from around here”_ and _“in our neck of the woods.”_ Like they were children, or dogs in remedial obedience lessons. It was embarrassing to be offered a platitude, and humiliating to receive it, but it was certainly better than outright hostility.

He _tried_ , of course. He did try to be friendly, supportive, joke around with others. Such a serious job took some extra humor, and for a few, it paid off. He’d get a wave, a smile, and found that quite satisfying. From some others, there was scoffing, huffing, plain insults: so long as it wasn’t personal, it was taken in loping stride with a throwaway grin.

What could they know? How could they know anything at all? They hadn’t been there: the radiation-torn wasteland he’d accepted as ‘home’, the desperation and decay. They couldn't have known or understood what it was _really_ like out there. Call Roadhog his babysitter, call him childish and a creep, no matter. So long as they never insult Roadhog, of course: paid to stay or not, a friend was rare to a Junker, as precious as gold, and Junkrat was miserly about his treasures; the big lug was quiet, but words were thorns in their sides, and nobody had any business bothering his bodyguard but him. Thankfully, they didn't talk to him much, but instead they seemed not to talk to him at all. To avoid him entirely, in fact, which was an entirely different kind of cruelty. But they had one another, souvenirs of their own past, with enough inside jokes between them to plaster their social cracks.

 _They smelled bad?_   Couldn’t tell: toxic fumes and sulfur had dulled that sense ages ago.

 _They were dirty all the time?_   Soot and mud protected their skin from the sun. Fresh water was rare, reserved for drinking, not washing. Dust baths were good enough for chinchillas, and therefore good enough for him.

 _They ate too fast, too greedily, like animals?_   Clearly none of these city wankers had ever had to fight for a bite to eat: if it wasn’t eaten fast, you might never have a chance, someone would snatch it away for themselves.

But he could forgive all of that. Really, he could. Nothing was quite so cathartic as going on a mission: running about, firing frag grenades, dozing off as the high settled down during the flight home. It was comfortable, familiar. Like knowing you have a bed, even if you slept better in the blanket nest under your bunk: having those missions was freedom, fresh air in a sterile and secure den.

He could handle stares and scorn. No big deal. That was, again, unless it was made _personal_.


	2. Behavior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to adapt to the civilized world when everyone's so damn uncivil.

The second mistake was to assume that he didn’t know better, or rather, that he didn’t understand. Similar to the first mistake, but distinctly different.

 _“You should wear a shirt while you work in the lab, and goggles too! Safety first!”_ An interesting prospect: wear a shirt for safety’s sake. A pinch of this compound and a bit of that chemical, and you have a simple firework. People oo and aa and clap. A little copper, and it turns green. Marvelous. A little of something else, and it’s raining green fire and everyone’s screaming in terror. But of course, it’s _wearing a shirt_ that’ll save his hide, not his own knowledge or experience with the material at hand.

So had gone an earlier conversation from the morning that Jamie mused fondly upon, smiling wryly as he launched another volley of frag grenades. He hated to visit Numbani, a nest of Omnics just waiting for the chance to slit a human throat…but by his buttons, he loved to destroy it. Escort the payload? Sure, sure, but nobody could accuse him of property damage when there was so much going on around them. Petty? Perhaps, but he reasoned that he had every right to be, all things considered. If these idiots were so dim as to live among devils, then he could hardly be accountable for their welfare thereafter.

“Hey! Aim for the enemy, not the buildings!” yelled Tracer, concentrating on a push to scout out any remaining agents, the battle not yet won.

“Keep yer shirt on!” he barked in reply. _Shirt!_ Junkrat laughed to himself, high and merry, and moved out at a loping gait, sailing off on a concussion mine to launch a series of aerial grenades. He knew where the elder sniper was, could see the Swede’s turrets, Roadhog plowing through to clear the way, scrap gun blazing as it claimed another victim. He’d never told anyone, but he really enjoyed the airborne moments: he didn’t feel so heavy, weighted down on one side. Landing on an overpass, he cackled, delighting in every moment of the skirmish. The bright flashes of explosives, the grunts and snarls of human combat. The smell of sweat and fire, the snap of traps, the firing of guns. It was familiar, exhilarating, exciting: adrenaline was a hell of a high and he would ride it as long as it flowed.

* * *

 

The fight was done within an hour: Ana had kept them well enough with her darts (though he didn’t want to admit that they’d stung), and with plenty of defense and a strong offense, they’d made the drop safely to take their flight home to the main base. A success, naturally, though not without the team suffering their fair share of injury for seeing it through: there was no shortage of scrapes, burns, singed clothes and bandages about the passenger cabin.

Jamie was in high spirits all the same, drumming his hands against his armrests as he rambled about his experience with Roadhog, who was as calm a listener as always. He might’ve been napping, as far as anyone could tell, but that was hardly the point. “And then!, then there was this bit where th’ grenade flew just perfect an’ clocked a drone square upside th’ head! Ha ha haaa hee heeeh~!” he giggled, bouncing in his seat, elbow bumping into Ana’s leg as she passed. “Whoa, whoa whoa, sorry mate! Damn thing don’t know where it’s goin’ some days.”

“It’s fine.” she assured, rubbing where he’d bumped her. “Accidents happen, just be careful next time.”

“...Y’know, lovey,” piped up Tracer, leaning over to join the conversation, “you could just get a new one.”

Junkrat blinked, eyes wide. “Wha’?”

“A new arm! That one’s so big and bulky, and it looks so heavy!” she smiled, pointing to his prosthetic. “You could get one more your size, y’know, newer? Better?”

His brow promptly furrowed, lip curling, baring a gold tooth. “Thanks but no thanks, _mate_.” he sneered mockingly, drawing his arm into his lap.

“Wh-what’s with the frown? I just said-”

“I heard you, _believe me_.” sneered Junkrat. “And I said no thanks.”

“Why do you always have to be so mean?” snapped Mei irritably from an aisle away. “She is just trying to make your arm work better. Do not talk like that to her!”

“Watch it, Snowcone.” he grumbled, eyes averting from either one. “Get too hot under the collar, you’re liable t’ melt.”

Cheeks flushed in aggravation, she turned toward Roadhog. “You! You are in charge of this man? Speak up and stop him for once, or do you have to be paid for that too?”

“Now, now love, it’s all right…” said Tracer nervously, waving her hands. “We don’t need to get him mixed up in this, I’m fine..!”

“Yeah, don’t go tearin’ into Roadhog just cause I ain’t gonna listen t’ you nag.” Junkrat scoffed, patting Roadhog’s back. “That’s the first thing you ever wanna say t’ him after a fortnight of nothin’? S’rude!”

“Do not tell me how to be polite to a _monster_ , you _filthy_ little _beast_!”

A pause fell through the cabin as eyes fell on the Junkers. Roadhog folded his hands atop his gut, letting out a sigh. He’d been awake. Seen the whole thing. Knew what had happened. The words of an angry pixie fell flat on the heart of an old war pig.

Junkrat, however, hummed. He cocked his head, considering this, then looked pointedly at Mei. His eyes were copper, bright and sharp, like a bird of prey staring down a snowshoe hare.

The announcement came through that they were landing, breaking the silence with a scurry to take their seats, though the tension still held as thick as tar.The Junkers were oddly silent, last to leave the plane.

* * *

 

Mei cringed as she heard the uneven gait approaching. She knew it’d be coming. It’d stopped behind her, a meter away, the hallway silent save for the hum of the lights.

“…what do you want, Junkrat.”

“…You’re a climatologist, innt that roit?” His voice was calm, measured, eerily stable. “You and yours, you work to save th’ world’s climates, repair damages and all that.”

She was taken aback. “How..?”

“Heard you talkin’ about it in the common room with a few of the rest, reminiscin’ about the old days.” he clarified, shifting his weight from his peg leg to the other, leaning slightly on the wall. “Couldn’t help but wonder about it. Looked it up. Real noble.” He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment.

She glowered defensively, wondering where this was going.

“But y’know…you’ve heard, really, what all happened back home. In Oz. With the Omnium, and the radiation, and all that. Y’did. Hard t’ miss when you catch up on worldly sorta events.” he muttered, tilting his head. “So I’m wonderin’…did your folks ever try helpin’ there?”

“…Ah…” she blinked, shoulders slightly lowering. “…no. We did not.”

“Ah.” he said briskly, giving a short nod. “Roit. Okay. Makes perfect sense. Don’ work in the one place in the whole wide world what’s been torn up most. Gotcha.” He folded his arms, giving her a critical look. “And so makin’ the most of the hand us poor bastards’ve been dealt is what makes us monsters.”

“You cannot blame your country’s problems on me!” Mei snapped, stamping a foot. “What _your_ people have done there is entirely-”

“ _I was five._ ”

She blinked, frowning, taken aback.

“…I was five when it happened.” he said darkly, taking a step forward. She took one back: when had he gotten so tall? Were his legs always so long? He leaned over, scowling, no hint of his usual mirth in his sun-aged visage, eyes burning a deep orange in the shadow of the overhead light. “And my eyes used t’ be brown. I coulda been someone else, in another life, somethin’ up to your bloody standards of respectable. But I’m _not_. I’m just the way I’ve got t’ be.”

He stood upright, gaze rich with disdain and disappointment.

“You wanna save the planet? Sure. Roit. You can’t even save one lousy country. Don’t talk to me about what’s _just_ in this godforsaken world; all there is to us is rust and desperation.” he snapped, turning on his peg and striding off, mismatched hands in his pockets.

Mei stood in the hallway, watching the ash-smeared back of the man as he left, the thin fluorescent buzz punctuated solely by the odd cadence punched out between a shuffling boot and pointed peg.


	3. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, we all need a little advice, especially when it's hard to swallow.

“Awww, Mei, I’m sorry lovey.”

Tracer placed a gentle hand on Mei’s shoulder, rubbing lightly for a moment before folding her arms, elbows resting atop the mess hall table. She’d found her way there, the day’s mission nagging at the back of her mind, even many hours later. She just couldn’t sort it: where had it gone wrong, what had she said that could have gotten him crossed? A new arm for free: what was so bad about that?

She’d tried letting it go, playing a few games, tending her plane: all manner of things, but she couldn’t shake the thought of the altercation. It itched in her mind, and brought her to wander about, despite the late hour, only to find a few other night owls. Oddly, Mei was among them: it wasn’t in her habits to be out and about so late, let alone quietly drinking a mug of cocoa while looking so…grim.

They weren’t alone: Torbjörn and Ana were also in the room, as well as McCree, the latter two engaged in a friendly game of darts while the Swede patiently tinkered with a machine part. Mei was quiet, pensive, but as Tracer joined her, she shared her troubles in a muted tone. “…I have never heard him speak like that,” she’d said, “quiet, measured. It was, was very frightening.”

“I don’t know what to make of those two.” she admitted, all sympathy. “They say what they want, but as soon as something’s not just so, they’re all kinds of tooth and bark! He may be frightening, Mei, but you’re right: sometimes, people are just no-good bullies.”

Mei smiled a little at the reassurance, and sipped her cocoa.

“Really, though…” Tracer pouted, chin in her hands as she propped her arms on the table. “It’s as if every time we try to reach out, they slap our hands away. Don’t they want a better life? Isn’t that why they joined? They said so, during the tour…”

The tour she recalled easily: they’d stopped everything in the middle of their orientation as soon as they’d been shown the cafeteria. For three hours they stayed, sampling every little thing and utterly throwing off the day’s schedule, barking laughs amid complaints that they could have come back when the tour was over, assurances that the food would still be there, and could only be reluctantly guided away when there were only bones left, which they’d been sucking marrow from. When asked why, the pair were quiet, until Roadhog muttered something about how it tasted good. Junkrat snorted and said his barbecue was better (while suppressing a belch), then asked where their rooms were despite the many items left on the itinerary. With a scoff that the hangar wasn’t going anywhere, they’d gone straight to bed with (presumably) matching grins, Junkrat crowing about living the good life…

“…but they haven’t made any changes for the better since.”

 

Torbjörn cleared his throat from across the room, Tracer and Mei looking up promptly. “…so, then, you don’t think my turrets are any good?”

Tracer started and gaped. “Wh- no! No, they’re amazing! You whip them up out of scraps in a blink, they’re brilliant!”

The dwarf thoughtfully adjusted a few bolts. “And my arm?”

“Well, it works fine, doesn’t it?” she asked, brow furrowed. Had she said something wrong to him..?

“Mmhm. That it does, that it does. Don’t think I need a new one, then?”

“No, not if you like it and it works well for you.”

“Then why do you think that _he_ needs a new one?”

Tracer blinked, eyes slowly widening as Torbjörn continued, working all the while.

“I think the trouble here, m'dear, is that you have the wrong perspective.” he said, calmly tightening a screw. “I myself made a similar offer, last time his arm went on the fritz. He declined, of course. Said he could do it his ‘own damn self’, and we left it at that. After about half an hour, he asked how mine worked, because he didn’t see how I got the- ...well, I won’t bore you with the details. But he made his arm himself. Out of scraps, just like I have myself, but what makes his impressive is that where I have a claw, he’s got fingers. Fingers that move like an actual hand, with relays that can get that message across from what’s left of his arm. _That’s_ his arm now, and he told me that he didn’t want to have an arm he couldn’t fix by himself. He knows every part of it, inside and out, and needs to for his own good.”

The room was quiet as he set aside his machine, outer plates neatly in place.

“And you, miss, told him to get a new arm, because it isn’t good enough for you.”

“That…that’s not what I said.” she murmured, brows furrowed in growing unease. “Or, and, at least not what I meant!”

“But that’s what he _heard_.” replied Torbjörn calmly. “And anyone would be put out by that.”

“But, why didn’t he say..?”

“Darlin’.” drawled McCree, propping up his hat with a thumb, “It ain’t easy to explain why your metal arm works okay when someone’s tryin’ to be nice but ain’t thinkin’ too hard. Can’t say I’d be too friendly if someone asked me why I don’t upgrade.”

He grinned a bit, giving a roll of his metal fingers as a wave. “Takes forever t’ break these in anyhow.”

Tracer pursed her lips. She knew she had done wrong, as much as she didn’t want to face that fact. Wasn’t thinking too hard…she hadn’t thought on it at all: she’d been downright _thoughtless_.

“I, I just thought, maybe he’d like one that fit better.” she fumbled. “It looks heavy, he even shrugs lopsided from it! It _can’t_ be good for him. And it gets in his own way, Ana, remember how it was in the aisle and hurt you? Wouldn’t it be better if he did? He can, now!” she said, hands on the table. “He can have better things, better equipment, a better life, and he spends it insulting people? He told Mei that her work was for nothing!”

“That we couldn’t save a single country.” said Mei, though there was no bluster in her voice.

 

Ana had been quiet until now, in a dead-heat tie with McCree in darts (both of them quietly agreeing that they’d be doing far better with their guns instead of their hands), but had heard every word exchanged. Slowly, she drew a breath and let it out.

“It is true: his elbow hit my thigh.” she stated. “On my blind side. He apologized, and I accepted, and no harm had been done. Only you had seen any wrong, Tracer, and for that you have only yourself to blame: good intentions without reason or consideration are as hollow as pity.”

The girl shut her mouth, nose burning with shame. It was true. She couldn’t deny that.

Ana turned to Mei with a frown. “And you.”

Mei blinked, shoulders tensing.

“If you continue to look for reasons to hate him, you will only find hatred waiting. You got into a fight that you were not part of, and only to antagonize, not to mend the rift.”

“He was being rude to Tracer.” she snapped. “I was defending my friend!”

“And had he harmed either of you, before he was spoken to?” Ana scowled. “It was neither of you who had run into him, and I had no offense. There was no reason to have fought when you could have helped things settle.”

“Well, I may have been wrong, er, rather thoughtless…but he could have _said_ something.” supplied Tracer. “Something else, maybe. We were all tired, a bit hurt, it was a long mission… but if he’d have just said something about why, or, or at least talked to us between missions…”

Mei nodded, frowning. “He spends all of his time making explosives and hanging around his own bodyguard. He does not try to learn our working methods; why must we adapt to his?”

“Yeah! We keep trying, but he just doesn’t listen!” Tracer pouted. “It’s so hard to talk to those two; they won’t listen to reason at all. We’ve all tried to teach them how things work at Overwatch, but they just…why won’t they talk to us? I’m sure we could get it sorted out, come to _some_ understanding.”

Ana’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “If I were him, I would not want to talk to you either, let alone learn your ways. You two speak of him as if he is a child, or an animal! Have you no heart for your fellow human? And his friend! He has joined this organization as well, and is as much of a member as you are. Do not pretend he does not think or feel for himself: talk to him before presuming he is merely a part of the scenery.”

“I, but-”

“ _No._ You listen to me now.”

Tracer fell silent. Mei’s grip was tight around her mug.

Ana huffed a breath through her nose, one eye sufficient for the admonishing glare that she cast upon the pair at the table.

“If you see only fault, you will become blind to virtue. They have done terrible things, but there is no soul in these halls that has lived a blameless life. If you presume that they are to be treated as trash, then trash they shall be, and serve you no better than such. They come from a very different world than you do, but we all live under the same sky, and I suggest you remember that more fondly.”

With that, she huffed, gathering her coat, and left with a muttered “Sleep well upon that.”

“Trash…” murmured Tracer, biting the corner of her lip.

Mei’s lips thinned as she looked back into her mug. “…perhaps we did not consider our place, as we minded theirs.”

Torbjörn nodded. “Every scrap has the potential to save a life, when you know what to do with it. They fit in here, just like the rest of us. Just give them time.”

“Fit in…give them time, yeah.” said Tracer softly, the gears already turning in her head as she slipped away. “…I think I ought to go have a lie-down. Um… Sleep well, everyone.”

Mei, alone, gathered her cup and sidled out without a word.

McCree sighed, giving Torbjörn a tired grin. “Kids these days just don’t know how to play nice sometimes, huh?”

Torbjörn chuckled. “As if you ever learned yourself?”

“Hey now…”

 

* * *

 

“Oi, Hog.”

“Mm?”

The pair were together, as they often were, in Jamison’s room. Jamie was sitting opposite the larger man, each of them with a back to a wall: more comfortable that way, for many reasons. Between them, spread on the floor, were notes Roadhog had taken on their fellow Overwatch members: what they could glean from light research, what they’d overheard from conversations they weren’t part of, as well as observed habitual behaviors. Roadhog was right: all humans were animals, and he was a hunter, one who knew his prey and domain very closely indeed. Junkrat had transcribed his own copies from the small book his associate carried, and was glad to have such paper reference: as they were trapped indoors with all manner of strangers, it was better to know their patterns and habits, rather than spend sleepless nights waiting for the shoe to drop.

“Remember that first night we spent here?”

“Yeah. Nice to have a bed, but it’s damn quiet here.” rumbled the larger man, making a fresh note on a blank page: Lucio had mentioned papayas, which sounded like some kind of food to try when he had a chance.

“Yeah…me, ’ve just bunged up in blankets under m’ bunk! Nice and cozy, got a whole big shelf up top for the ol’ arm an’ leg.” he chuckled. “I’m just thinkin’ of when they first troied wakin’ us up, is all.”

Roadhog snorted a laugh, resting a hand atop his gut. “Serves 'em right, if you ask me.”

The morning in question had been highlighted by the immediate cock and aim of their weapons upon hearing a knock at their respective doors: Junkers did not care for surprises while sleeping.

“Yeah…” he hummed. He wondered if he’d ever really lose that habit, even though it’d faded slightly. “Scared the socks off that poor lady, but she’s lightened up all roit since, eh?”

“Yeah. I like her wings.”

Jamie scribbled a picture on Mercy’s pages: her face and figure was vague, but the wing schematics were quite accurate. “Dunno how she _flies_ just yet, but I’ll sort it someday.”

“Gonna make yourself a pair, Jamison?” he snorted, teasing.

“Naw, gonna fit you with a pair, see if you can finally keep up with my pace!” he snickered back. “Just goes t’ show, a peg’s as good as a leg, innit?”

“Sometimes better.” he muttered with a dismissive lift of his shoulder. “Wings are better than both.”

“Yeah, no kidding…”

 

Both of them sat sharply upright at the knock on the door, each sighing as they relaxed a bit.

“Fuckin’…what time is it.” muttered Junkrat, peering at his clock. Well. Breakfast. He didn’t want anything, but his stomach eagerly disagreed. Hefting himself up, he took to the door with a grumble, peeking out. “Yeah, ’m up.”

Tracer stood before him with a sheepish, hopeful grin. “Good morning!”

He blinked, blank-faced, brow slowly furrowing in quiet confusion. “Eh…yeah. Same t'you, ay. Wocha want?”

“I! Um!” She shuffled her feet a moment. “I was wondering, if you two would maybe join me for breakfast?”

Junkrat looked back to Roadhog with an expression of bemusement, seeking guidance in this particular social query. He didn’t _hate_ her for the previous day's events (though she certainly seemed to think that he did, judging by her tone and smile) but he wasn’t sure if going meant he’d be stuck listening to an awkward self-explanation for an hour.

Roadhog gathered the note paper and tapped it square, then gave a shrug before setting it on the bed-shelf. They’d have to eat eventually, after all: better to get it done with, spare themselves any further discomfort. Sooner started, sooner done.

Junkrat looked back to Tracer with a shrug. “Yeah, okay.” he said, Roadhog grunting as he rose. “Sounds good. Get some nice kippers n’ scones or woteva.”

 

Tracer smiled brightly, unsure if he was teasing or trying to relate, but remained optimistic as she led the way to the cafeteria, the Junkers following fairly amiably. “Just you two, me, Mei, and a big stack of- hey!”

Junkrat had stopped, turned smartly on his peg, and had begun walking the opposite direction.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that..!”

Junkrat looked back with an arched brow, frowning. He knew the girl could be a bit thick about people, but really now. “Hate t’ burst y’ bubble here, Speedy, but Ice Queen there don’t exactly like me. Dunno if you noticed, but, y'know. Kinda crimps an appetite.”

“Junkrat, I promise, it won’t be so bad!” she implored. “We’ve all had a night’s sleep, rested up.”

“Yeah. _Roit._ That always does the trick for what ails, dunnit?”

“Please?”

He peeked over his shoulder, blank-faced. _…please?_ He glanced to Roadhog, who nodded up toward the cafeteria. Junkrat sighed and turned around. “Oh, _awroit…_ ”

“Thank you!” she smiled, clearly relieved that their little walk wasn’t over, and continued on the way.

No doubt, he reasoned, he’d be sat down, they’d have to discuss their feelings about yesterday or some other tripe, and he’d be asked for an apology, which he would give if only to make the conversation stop so that he could eat in peace. The things a man did for a reliable meal! Next thing he’d know, they’d be asking him to make daisy crowns.

They arrived, stepping into the cafeteria, both reflexively looking to the food before taking in the rest of the sights. There was a full spread on the table, pancakes and eggs, all sorts of fruit he'd never seen, tea, scones as well, at least three kinds of jam? Junkrat hummed, nose wrinkling on suspicion. Too good to be true, too nice all at once.

Mei noticed from her seat at the table and bit her tongue. Was he truly so repelled? She’d called him names before, but he’d always laughed it off. This time…?

“Aren’t you two comin’ on kinda strong?” scoffed Junkrat, looking to Roadhog. “It’s not a holiday, I don’ think? Nah?” he asked, the larger man shaking his head. “Nup. So what’s the catch here, you two? Wotcha want?”

“Well!” said Tracer, standing before them. “Well. Well well. We had ourselves a think, and we decided we ought to do something we should have done ages ago.”

He cocked his head, inviting further explanation.

“Get to know the both of you.” she said, smiling nervously. _Don’t laugh, please don’t laugh, just believe me…_

He snickered, arching a brow. “You sure? We’re nothin’ but scum.”

“No, you are not.” said Mei quietly, chancing a small smile. “Unless we are too.”

At that, he smiled a bit more honestly. It was strangely charming: a wholly new expression on a spot-smudged face.

“Damn roit on that.” he chuckled, taking a plate as Roadhog sat down.

The four of them talked for hours, about nothing and everything. The senior members began most of the conversations, but once they’d been fed, the Junkers opened up, just a little, to reveal little aspects of themselves:

  * Junkrat liked mango; it was his favourite fruit of them all, pineapple a close second.
  * Roadhog was not, as they’d thought, a vegetarian. However, he refused to eat pork in any way, and made Junkrat’s compliance to that condition a clause in the contract he’d signed when hired.
  * Junkrat’s favourite colour was orange: he found it very friendly.
  * Roadhog liked pigs because of their intelligence.



They were interesting! Friendly, even, if perhaps a bit rough around the edges. And if you looked close enough, every once in a while, beneath the soot and sweat of Junkrat and Roadhog, little bits of Jamie and Mako shone through the cracks.

 

* * *

 

“Excuse me.”

Junkrat paused in the hallway, looking back with a grunt. Mei stood behind him: she’d been quiet during breakfast, mostly listening, but had kept to herself otherwise. He turned to face her, hands in his pockets, head cocked curiously: the nonchalance of his manner didn’t much hide how swiftly his shields had risen.

“Wotcha wan’?” he asked calmly.

“I am sorry.” she said softly.

“Wot for?”

“…many things.” she admitted. “I do not like most things about you, but I should not treat you poorly.”

“…Y'know that sounds really like you just want _forgiven_ , roit, not like a _real_ apology?” he scoffed. “Look, Snowball. I know you’re tryin’ t’ make things level here, cause you’re a nice person an’ all, but y’ really aren’t doin’ a bang-up job. Y’ don’ have t’ pretend t' loik me: hell, so many folks don’t, I had t' hire a bodyguard!” he added, chuckling.

Mei gave him a look he couldn’t quite read: somewhat sad, somewhat frustrated.

“…but it’s noice that you’re tryin’.” he muttered, just a touch sheepish. Damn it all, he’d never been very good with his words. _You're not trying to start a fight, Jamison, **square up dammit**._ “ 'ppreciate that, a lot.”

“You think I am a nice person?”

“Sure. Y'know a bully when y'see one, ay?”

He was grinning, lopsided as the rest of him. She smiled a little: awkward, shy, but it was a smile.

“You’re a bully, but…maybe you are a _little_ good, Jamie.”

He shushed, tutting, waving a finger with a smirk. “We ain’t that friendly yet, missy. Buuuut… Jamison’ll do for now.”

 

* * *

 

 

Taking a swig from his canteen, Jamison Fawkes settled into his seat, taking up his biro for a fresh bomb schematic, already tickling in his mind. As he’d always thought: city wankers didn’t know much, and could never really understand…but by the stars, he could never keep cross with them whenever they really _tried_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten some lovely comments in praise of my portrayal of Junkrat, and I'd like to thank you all most sincerely for it. I find him rather relatable, so it means a lot to know I've hit the nail on the head. (As an aside, it's easy to write him when you have caffeine and listen to Dragonforce.) That's all for this fic, and I'm sorry that the chapter was super long, but I'm moving soon and wanted it all out of my head. Next one's all about Roadhog.


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